


Find Your Passion

by DracoIgnis



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Breathplay, College | University Student Jon Snow, Cunnilingus, Dominant Daenerys, F/M, Fantasizing, Female Solo, Fucking, Light Dom/sub, Male Solo, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Professor Daenerys Targaryen, Riding, Teacher-Student Relationship, emotional development, relationship, submissive Jon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22120537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoIgnis/pseuds/DracoIgnis
Summary: University student Jon Snow went from top of his class to barely passing. In an attempt to get him back on track, he is paired with mentor Professor Daenerys Targaryen. As Jon's confidence develops, so does his relationship with Daenerys - and it turns out that he might like feeling a bit out of control. But will they endure when real life troubles come their way?
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 102
Kudos: 240





	Find Your Passion

**Author's Note:**

> A few readers mentioned that they'd like to see a Professor Daenerys/Student Jon fic, so... here you go! The tags cover the whole story, not just this first chapter, so beware that not all the mentioned kinks will show up yet.

..

“You want me to get _a mentor?_ ”

Jon stared at Olenna in disbelief. The old woman looked smug, and he disliked her at once; the way she sat in her large, cushioned chair, her hands folded atop her chest, her lips tucked back into a wry smile. It made his stomach clench, and he leaned back in his own seat with an air of defiance about him.

“I’m not interested,” he said, “it’s just not _my thing_.”

“Oh, I know your _thing_ , Mr Snow,” Olenna said. She tapped her fingertips to the fabric of her dress, the silk moving below them like streams of water. She was elegant, he couldn’t deny that; hair tied back under a shawl, the makeup sparse, her wrinkles deep and wise. She sat in her office the way he imagined the Queen sat on her throne: back straight, head raised high, eyes full of command.

_But she’s also a hundred years old - at least,_ he reminded himself, frowning. _All old people claim to have wisdom. Few of them even know how to turn on a laptop._ He pushed his fingertips into the pockets of his jeans as he tried to remain still, but he was already feeling restless. His toes wiggled in his sneakers. His eyes glanced about the office. His mouth watered as his lungs begged for a smoke.

“Am I boring you, Mr Snow?” Olenna asked, her voice perfectly cool. As he looked back at her, she caught his sight with a deep smile. “I gather you’re not a very good listener - you ask if I want you to get a mentor. I told you - I already arranged one for you.”

Jon shuffled back in his seat and bit his inner cheek. He wanted to look away, but he found himself unable to break the gaze. Instead, he cleared his throat. “I think you’ll find I pay nearly nine grand a year to study here,” he said, his voice strained. “What I do in my spare time is my own decision.”

“Indeed, we have many students who pay more just for the chance to party on campus,” Olenna agreed and rolled her eyes. “But I already told you - I know _your thing_.”

“What’s that, then?” Jon asked dully, but before she could reply, he straightened up in his seat. “No, don’t tell me,” he said, waving his hand at her, “let me guess. My thing is smoking too many cigarettes, and drinking too much alcohol, and playing in too many shitty garage bands which will never make it out of town. Is that _my thing_?” He raised his fingers to mark the air with quotation marks as he raised his brows at Olenna. It was meant to feel like a win, but the unimpressed way in which she glared at him just made him feel dumb, and he quickly slumped back into his seat as she stood up.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“You know how old I am,” Jon said meekly, but he still replied: “I’m twenty-five.”

“You started your studies late,” she remarked. Her hands slipped to the small of her back as she walked to the window and looked out.

The sun was streaming in through the open blinds. Jon blinked as the sharp light hit his eyes. “I suppose,” he said. “I went travelling for a while. After my bachelor.”

“Top of your class.” Olenna snapped around on her feet, facing him at once. She had an odd glimpse to her eyes which he couldn’t quite make sense of. “That was you, wasn’t it? Straight A student in sixth form. Best student in your undergraduate classes. No one could even get close to you.”

Jon forced himself to look away as he felt heat rise to his cheeks. He peeled at the ripped hole in his jeans. “I guess,” he said. _Why is she going through all this?_ he thought, trying to distance himself from the situation. _It’s embarrassing._

“That used to be your thing,” she said, “perfection.”

Jon shrugged, his eyes still focused on the rip. “Things change,” he said.

“They do,” Olenna agreed. She slowly walked across the carpet until she stopped before him. She leaned back against her desk, her hands resting on the edge of the table as she sent him a pained look. “But _what_ changed?”

Jon couldn’t bear to look up, because he knew what he would find in her face: disappointment. Instead, he pulled harder on the strings, causing the hole on his knee to largen. “Is that why you called me here?” he asked, trying to build up courage in his voice. “Because your favourite student isn’t performing? I gathered something was going on when I got an invite from the chancellor. Most universities barely offer counselling services. Am I affecting funding or something?” He finally glanced up at her. His face was placed into a perfectly neutral expression, but within he felt a burning anger. Whether against Olenna or himself, he couldn’t quite tell.

For a moment, he expected her to lash back at him. But instead Olenna merely clucked her tongue. “You’re so lost,” she spoke, and there was nothing to her voice. Not even a hint of annoyance. As she slipped back around her desk, Jon barely knew where to look, and before he could formulate a reply, she took a seat and continued: “It’s all the same. I’ve arranged a mentor for you. I recommend that you meet.”

“What if I don’t?” Jon asked, but the fire in his voice had died out. He just sounded quiet.

Olenna shrugged and did a little wave with her fingertips. “Well!” she sighed, “I suppose it’s as you say; you pay nine grand a year to be here. Whether you’ll gain anything from it is entirely up to you. Good day, Mr Snow.”

Jon paused, waiting to see if she would say else, but as Olenna just closed her eyes and sunk back into her chair, he grabbed his backpack off the floor and gave her a curt nod. “Thanks, chancellor,” he mumbled, turned on his heels, and walked out of her office.

Jon Snow was in the first year of his postgraduate degree, and he was _failing_. Whilst that realisation alone should make him worried, he found that he felt nothing. He wasn’t sad about it, or anxious, or annoyed. He just felt completely _indifferent_. In fact, as he hurried outside to light a cigarette, he discovered that even the anger in him from earlier had been due to a lack of nicotine. Now, as smoke filled his lungs, he was able to calm his heart and settle on the front steps to the building, his body at peace as he thought: _Fuck Olenna, and everyone else in this damn institution._

What did he need a mentor for, anyway? Jon knew his grades were beyond repair. _Perhaps I would be better off dropping out,_ Jon thought, _and spare myself the difficulties. Although-_ he paused as his phone rang. The name DAARIO blinked on his screen, and he grimaced, _-although you just can’t escape from some people._ He watched the screen until he rang off. Then, it started again. And again. Just as he was about to turn off his phone, Daario’s voice sounded behind him:

“Just pick up, alright?”

Jon tipped his head back and glared up at his old friend; brown hair, sparkling eyes, self-indulged smile. “Why call me when you’re right there?” he asked.

“To see if you were ignoring me on purpose,” Daario explained as he slumped down on the stairs next to Jon. He snuck a cigarette out of his pocket and gestured for light.

Jon swiftly put his smokes away in his backpack before bitterly lighting the one his friend had already nicked. “Suppose you got your answer,” he said.

“ _Come on_ ,” Daario sighed. He took a drag of the cigarette before letting the smoke seep out of his nostrils. “It’s just once a week, man. You can do that for me, surely?” He sent Jon a hopeful look, but his brows soon furrowed once met with a blank stare. “You already forgot why you’re avoiding me, right?”

Jon shook his head, but his eyes gave the truth away. Before Daario could moan any further, he held his hands up in defence. “Right, look, whatever it is, I can’t do it,” he said, “I’m _busy_.”

“Sure, your right hand is always _busy_ ,” Daario said and jerked the air, “never got time for me.”

Jon slapped his hand down. “Stop that. What did you want, anyway?”

Daario clapped his hands together with an excited glimpse to his eyes. “Right, look, Jon, _pal_ , my _good friend_. You’re the only one I know with a car-”

“Oh no, I see where this is going.”

“-and I really need someone to drive me to band practice. _Please_ , man, it’ll be awesome. We can practice together!”

“Not interested!” Jon shook his head with vigour as he stood up. He swung his backpack over his shoulder. “Too busy!”

“ _Every Wednesday?_ ” Daario said in disbelief.

“Exactly then.”

“What with?”

Jon paused, staring down at his friend’s perplexed face, and he said the first thing that came to mind: “Mentoring.” The moment the word left his lips, he felt like kicking himself.

Daario raised his brows. “You’re mentoring someone?” he asked.

“No, getting mentored,” Jon replied, sinking deeper into his lie. “Apparently I have a lot of hidden talents.”

Daario pushed his lips in a whistle, and he chewed on the filter of the cigarette as he turned away from Jon. “Must be hidden deep in there, man, ‘cause I haven’t seen them.”

_You wouldn’t have, would you?_ Jon thought, feeling his cheeks grow warm. His hands were turning to fists at his side, but he kept his heartbeat steady by breathing slowly. _Because you’re like the rest of them._ “Well,” he finally said after a pause and snubbed his smoke out on the steps, “it’s just what it is. Heading in to set up my first appointment now, actually.”

“Right, have fun,” Daario shrugged.

Jon scoffed at his back before trudging into the building once more. It was with slow, awkward steps that he approached Olenna’s office and casually popped his head in. “Uh, Mrs Tyrell?” he said, and the woman looked up from her desk at him with surprise on her face. “Is that mentor person available Wednesdays?”

A smile grew on Olenna’s lips, and Jon immediately felt his stomach churn with regret. “Why, Mr Snow,” she spoke sweetly, “I think she is.”

* * *

Daenerys Targaryen.

The name was engraved on a golden plaque on her office door. Most other professors had taped a piece of paper to theirs, but not her. _Probably thinks of herself as important,_ Jon thought and tugged at the straps of his backpack as he read her title. _Professor of Sociology, huh?_ _I bet she’s a dusty crone nestled away behind a dictionary._ But when he knocked on the door, it was a young woman’s voice that called:

“Come in,” and Jon found himself stumped as he pushed at the handle and stepped over the threshold.

Most of Jon’s professors were old men, and they all kept their office in the same way; full of books and ashtrays, the carpet worn and dirty, the curtains always pulled shut, the light sparse. The office that he stepped into, however, was the exact opposite. The blinds were wide open, allowing the sun to fall in, and the carpet had been stripped off to expose the old wood beneath. As he glanced at the shelving units, he found them all neatly organised, and not a single speck of dust lingered anywhere in sight.

But what really caught him off-guard was the woman behind the desk. Her hair was silver, but not from age, and the locks had been tightly braided and tucked up into a loose bun. Her collarbones were exposed by the deep cut in her black dress, allowing him sight of two milky white stripes across her tanned skin from where her straps must have sat.

Jon would have allowed his gaze to seek deeper had she not glanced up. In her violet eyes, he found himself speechless, and he quickly checked the name on the door again to ensure that he’d walked into the right office. “Uhm,” he mumbled and turned back to look at her, his cheeks flushed, “sorry, I’m looking for-”

The woman held up a finger to silence him. “I said come in,” she spoke sharply, “not _speak_.” With a slight shake of her head, she glanced back down at the papers on her desk and continued reading.

Jon’s lips snapped together, and he stared at her in shock. _Did she just tell me to shut up?_ he thought. His fingertips stroked down the straps of his backpack, unable to find rest anywhere, and he awkwardly leaned his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of where to go or even where to look. He finally found peace in just staring at the tips of his worn sneakers, and he remained that way until the woman finally put the papers aside.

As her fingers skilfully separated the documents with silver paper clips, she eyed him with suspicion. “You’re looking for someone?” she spoke.

Jon nodded and, realising that he could speak, he cleared his throat. “I’m looking for Mrs Targaryen,” he said, “she-”

“Professor.”

Jon blinked. “What?”

The woman put the papers into a drawer beneath her desk. She then folded her hands atop the desk and patiently repeated: “Professor. Professor Targaryen. It’s an earned title.”

“Right,” Jon mumbled and licked his teeth. He waited for her to say something else, but she just sat looking at him expectantly. “Right,” he said again, “I’m looking for _Professor_ Targaryen. I have an appointment.”

“What’s your name?” the woman asked.

“Jon Snow,” Jon said. “Are you her secretary?”

“I don’t know, Mr Snow,” the woman replied, “are you from the fifties?”

Jon blinked perplexed. “What do you mean?” he asked, but he almost regretted it at once - there was a glimpse in her eyes, a sense of amusement and disappointment all at once.

She leaned back in her chair, her arms stretched as her folded hands still rested atop her table, and she sighed: “Oh, my mistake. I thought you must have time-travelled, because surely no man of today would assume a young woman to be a secretary rather than, I don’t know, _an esteemed professor_.” She spoke the last words with a sharp tongue, and Jon felt his face go warm.

“You’re Professor Targaryen, aren’t you?” he asked meekly. As she smiled, he swallowed. “Sorry, I just didn’t expect you to be-”

“-young?” Daenerys smirked. As Jon nodded, she gestured at the chair in front of her desk, and she waited with speaking until he’d taken a seat. “I can tell you haven’t heard much about me, but I know _a lot_ about you, Mr Snow.”

Jon tucked his backpack between his feet as he let her words sink in. “You do?” he said, but in his mind he scolded himself: _Of course she does. I bet Olenna has given her the whole run-down of my failures._ The thought of the old hag prattling about him made him feel sick, and he scooted back into the chair and braced himself for what would be said.

But Daenerys neither praised his past talents nor went on a rant about his lost opportunities. Instead, she cocked her head to the side and raised her brows as she asked: “So, what do you want to achieve?”

Jon opened his mouth to speak, but he realised he didn’t have an answer. He hadn’t been prepared for that kind of question. “To be honest,” he said slowly, “I thought you’d be telling me that.”

“How would I know?” Daenerys said.

“Isn’t that what a mentor does? Figures out what I need and tells me how to get it?”

“Whilst you lean back and reap the results?” Daenerys asked, her voice innocent, and Jon almost nodded before catching her mocking tone. She rolled her eyes. “Please, Mr Snow, do not take me for a fool. I meant what I said - Professor is an earned title. It takes hard work to get it. If you’re looking for an easy ride to fame, you’re in the wrong office.”

“I honestly don’t know what I’m looking for,” Jon said in earnest.

Daenerys narrowed her eyes in thought, and her fingertips tapped onto the desk. “Is that so?” she hummed, and for a moment Jon worried if he’d said something wrong. But then the tapping stopped, and she gave him a small nod. “I can work with that.”

“You can?” he asked surprised. It was not the answer he’d expected, but nonetheless Daenerys continued:

“I can’t tell you what you want, but I can help you figure it out. Look into the future, Mr Snow - surely you don’t expect to spend life at university?”

Jon stared at her blankly. _In honest,_ he thought, and he felt his heart ache a little, _I don’t know what I want to do._ But he couldn’t make himself speak something so bleak, so he just agreed: “Of course not,” and felt a little relief as Daenerys smiled.

“Of course not,” she repeated. She pushed a loose lock of hair behind her ear, causing her golden earring to dangle. “The way I see it, it’s my duty to help all students reach their full potential. What that looks like? Well, that’s your own decision. But you need to tell me what it is you want out of this, or I can’t offer any guidance.”

Jon nodded regretfully. _Sounds like a lot of work just to get out of driving Daario around,_ he thought, pondering if he’d made the wrong decision. “So what do you need from me?” he asked, sensing that she was expecting a reply.

“I need you to envision your future,” Daenerys said. She tapped a finger to a piece of paper on her desk. “Come prepared next time, with some vision of who or where you want to be, and we’ll take it from there.”

“Okay,” Jon said, “vision. You’ve got it.” He grabbed his backpack off the floor as he stood up. “Thank you, Mrs Targaryen,” he said, “you’ve been most helpful.”

“I’ll see you next week,” Daenerys said and eyed him as he walked to the door. She waited until he’d taken a hold of the handle before calling: “Oh, Mr Snow?”

“Yes?” Jon looked over his shoulder back at her.

Daenerys rested her chin on her hands and gave him a pointed look. It almost made him sweat. “It’s _Professor_ ,” she reminded him. “Not Mrs.”

“Sorry, Professor,” Jon said, feeling dumb at once. “I guess I don’t have many female professors in my field of study.”

“What is your degree again?”

“I study criminology,” Jon replied.

“Well, Mr Snow,” Daenerys said, and the tone of her voice was cool. It almost made him shiver. “I think you’ll find that criminological theories are dominated by the male view. Do not make the same mistake by underestimating a woman’s experience. I might be young, but I fought twice as hard as any of your teachers to be where I am today.” She paused, waiting for the words to sink in.

Jon stared at her, vexed at her tone, but, unable to come up with a witty remark, he just said: “Yes, Professor. Of course, Professor,” and he bowed his head as he slunk outside.

Once the door closed behind him, Jon gritted his teeth together, and he glared at the golden plaque with a scowl. _She might not be old,_ he thought, his cheeks still brimming red from embarrassment, _but she sure is up her own arse._

* * *

That evening, as Jon laid in bed staring at the ceiling, he thought: _What_ do _I want from the future?_ Daenerys’ question played on repeat in his head, but no matter how he tried to approach it, he found that he had no clear answer.

It wasn’t that he thought everything would just work itself out, because to him that was pitiful optimism. He wasn’t dreading the time ahead either - why worry about something that might not happen? _No,_ Jon thought and flipped over onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillow as he breathed out. The problem was that he wasn’t feeling anything at all. He was just _numb._

There was a knock on his door. Jon pressed his nose further into the covers and squeezed his hands to his ears as he tried to drown out the sound, but even through his fingertips he could hear his brother’s muffled calling:

“I know you’re in there.”

Jon paused. For a moment, there were no more sounds, and he thought that perhaps Robb had moved on. But then the knocking started again, this time like an incessant hammering, and he finally sat up in bed as he yelled: “For fucks sake, Robb, just come in!”

His door swung open, and Robb stepped over the threshold with a little smile. “Hey, Jon,” he said, and he casually leaned against the doorway, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his slacks, “how’re things?”

Jon glared at his brother; his curly hair had been perfectly gelled back, his shirt was freshly white, and when he sniffed in, he could smell a faint scent of aftershave. “Come on,” Jon said, “what do you want?”

“Why do I need to want something?” Robb asked, faking hurt in his voice.

“Because you’re wearing aftershave.”

“Maybe I’m wearing it for me.”

“Maybe you’re hoping to get laid.” Jon swung his legs over the edge of the bed and raised his brows at Robb, and he felt a bit smug as his brother’s cheeks darkened. “Let me guess. You need me out of the flat?”

“You came home late,” Robb mused, deflecting the question. He plucked some dirt from his fingernails. “Did you finally break down and join Daario’s band?”

“Negative. I was at uni.”

“Didn’t think you had classes on Wednesdays.”

“I don’t,” Jon said and stood up. He stretched his arms and yawned as he glanced around his room. It was the smallest room in the flat, but there was just enough space to fit in all his stuff; desk, wardrobe, bed, and guitar. As long as he kept everything tidy, he wouldn’t need else. _But cleaning has never been my strongest suit,_ he reminded himself as he picked a bunch of books off the floor to clear a way to the closet. “I met with my mentor.”

“ _You_ have got a mentor?” Robb snorted.

Jon sent him a puzzled look. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he shrugged, “maybe because you’ve spent the last few weeks musing about dropping out.”

“Perhaps I had a change of heart,” Jon sniffed, though he knew well that he only had Daario to blame.

“Who is it?” Robb asked. As Jon didn’t reply straight away but just started rummaging through his wardrobe, his voice grew curious. “Go on - is it someone nasty?”

“Her name’s Daenerys,” Jon said and pulled out a black sweater. He was about to say something else as Robb’s whistling caught him off-guard.

“Oh, so it _is_ someone nasty.” His voice was thick with insinuation.

Jon grimaced: “Get lost,” before realising: “So, you know her?”

“Daenerys Targaryen, right?” he replied. He shook his head with a wry smile. “Man, Jon, you’ve got balls - I don’t think I could sit talking to her without getting a boner.”

Jon wrinkled his nose. “Don’t be so disgusting.” He pulled off his tee as he changed into the thicker sweater. The fabric was cool against his skin, and he shivered and rubbed his arms as he tried to warm it up.

Robb cocked his head. “Alright, then look me in the eyes and tell me she’s not hot.”

Jon looked Robb in the eyes, defiance in his own, and said: “I honestly haven’t thought about it.” But as he spoke, the image of her tanned shoulders with the white lines from her straps flickered before his eyes, and he leaned down and pretended to be busy folding his tee. “Besides, I bet she’s, like, ancient,” he said through gritted teeth, angry at his own mind.

“She’s thirty-two,” Robb said.

“How’d you know?” Jon snapped his head up, only to find Robb showing him his mobile. There, flickering on the screen, was the first search result on Facebook: Daenerys Targaryen, complete with profile picture and date of birth. “Oh.”

“Honestly, Jon,” his brother smirked and pulled his phone back, “sometimes I think _you’re_ the ancient one. Ever heard of _the internet_?”

“I’ve heard of Tinder - aren’t you their most prolific user?” Jon shot back.

“Speaking of that,” Robb said undeterred, “do you have anywhere to be tonight? Because I might have company coming over.”

“Worried they might prefer me?”

“Worried you might scare them away.”

“You know, it’s weird being flatmates with someone who constantly wants you out of the house,” Jon said, but he regretted it immediately. In Robb’s face, he saw shock and annoyance, and he realised at once that he could not be bothered to have that argument tonight. Instead, he snuck on his denim jacket and grabbed his backpack off the floor. “No bother - I’m off to work anyway.”

“Right,” Robb mumbled. As Jon pushed past him, he looked like he wanted to say something else, but he shrugged it off and just followed him into the hallway. Watching Jon putting on his boots, he said: “Thanks, mate, I’ll owe you one.”

“Ah, forget it,” Jon said, though in his head he bitterly added: _You owe me a good twenty times by now._ He pulled on his bag and grabbed his keys. “I’ll be back in the morning,” he reminded him as he headed out.

“I’ll try to be done by then,” Robb replied as he closed the door. To anyone else, it might sound like a jokey comment, but Jon knew he meant it.

_You better be,_ Jon thought as he headed downstairs, remembering how Robb had previously left him standing in the hallway as he finished off business with a lady friend.

It was never meant to be this way; when Jon moved in, Robb swore up and down that it was now _their_ flat. He painted a picture of a bachelor’s dream, complete with a fridge always stocked with beer, sports on TV, and parties every Friday with all their friends. But in truth, Robb was never able to let go of the fact that Catelyn had gifted the place to him. Whenever they had a disagreement, he would revert to a child, and incessantly remind Jon that only one name appeared on the deed - and it sure wasn’t Jon’s.

After a while, Jon gave up trying. These days, he was happy if a week would pass where he wasn’t kicked out of the flat to make room for Robb’s newest online conquest.

The thought alone made Jon’s blood boil, and he reminded himself, _It doesn’t matter,_ as he walked out into the chilly evening air. He checked the time on his phone. Almost ten. _After all, I have more important things to worry about._ He dragged his jacket tight around his frame and started down the street in the direction of town.

* * *

There was a tense pause as Daenerys stared at the piece of paper on her desk.

Somewhere in her office, a clock was ticking. Every time the second hand moved, the sound snapped through the quiet air and made Jon jump. He tried to distract himself; he watched the blinds glide in the light breeze, and he smelled the outside flower-beds, and listened for the sound of chatter in the hallway. But his eyes inadvertently slipped back to the professor as she sat silently reading his note, and he had to swallow to push his heartbeat back down his throat into his chest.

_Why am I so nervous? It’s stupid,_ Jon thought, but he knew exactly why he was squirming. Because there was just one sentence on the paper, and the more Daenerys read it, the more her brows knitted together until she finally leaned back with a sigh.

“I gave you a week to think about the future,” she said, “and this is all you could come up with?” She picked up the note as she showed it to him.

Though he knew what it said, Jon still leaned forward as he read the sentence:

_I want to finish my degree._

Jon flicked some dust off his jeans as he settled back into the chair. It was not one made for comfort, he noted; the armrests were slightly too high to actually lean on, whilst the backrest was too short to support the spine. _It’s like she intents her meetings to be brief_ , he thought and angled his elbows so that the tips could rest on the arms. “Well,” he said after a moment of hesitation. He was searching for some string of words that would excuse his lack of notes, but finally just settled on: “It’s what I want to do.” He spoke it with a sigh.

Daenerys’ lips tensed as she smacked them. “Is that so.” She put the paper back down and flattered it out with her nails. “Do you want to know what I think, Mr Snow?”

_That I’m lazy, devoid of ambition, and completely irredeemable?_ Jon thought already bored, but he dutifully asked: “What do you think, Professor?”

“I think you lack confidence.”

Daenerys was wearing a knee length dress with pale pink stripes. The cut was baggy, but pulled in at her waist with a belt. As she stood, Jon watched how the fabric fell nicely around her thick hips. He was certain it wasn’t something he would’ve noted before had Robb not spent the last week musing about Daenerys’ _assets_ , but now it was all he could focus on as he tried to drown out the stinging anger building in him.

_Confidence_ , he thought with mockery, and his eyes followed her as she slipped around her desk to her shelving unit. _What would you know about my confidence? You sit in your perfect office with your perfect life judging the rest of us with your-_ his thoughts halted as she turned to glance at him, a small smile on her plump lips, _-perfect face._ Jon felt his nape turn sweaty under her stare, and he forced himself to look away and build up a casual voice as he said: “I’m a white man in my twenties. I’ve got all the confidence I need.”

“Yet your grand vision for the future is to finish your degree?”

“Isn’t that every student’s hope?”

“Sure, but to most it’s just a step on the way to something greater.” Daenerys folded her arms as she watched him. Out of the corners of his eyes, Jon could see her gaze slip up and down his body, and he became awkwardly aware that he was in the same jeans and tee as the first time they met.

“I just take it one step at a time,” he explained.

“Do you find it hard to look further ahead?” she asked plainly.

Jon scoffed: “I look as far as I care to!” He turned in his seat, leaning over the armrest as he finally met her gaze. “With all due respect, Professor, I don’t like how you try to pinpoint my character from a single sentence I wrote. It’s not fair. If we all went about judging each other with no chance of redemption, society would be in the gutter - and we’re already not far off that reality.”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes, and Jon wondered if he’d said something to upset her. But then a gentle smile broke out across her lips, and her arms uncrossed. “Spoken like a true criminologist,” she said and turned back to browse her shelf.

Jon rubbed his nose with perplexion. _She’s not annoyed with me?_ he thought. He had been prepared for an argument, but Daenerys just started grabbing at books and reading their summaries as she made her way through her unit, a light humming escaping her lips. “Right,” he said, the heat in his voice long dead, “glad we agree.”

“There is no problem with a short term goal,” Daenerys said. Her nails clicked across the hardbound covers. “But you need to think about two things when you set one. First of all, what do you need to do to reach that goal. Let’s imagine you want to be a professor.”

_Something that hits close to home?_ Jon thought amused. It was only as she glanced back at him that he realised he should probably engage, and he hurriedly pushed his hands into his backpack as he withdrew a notebook at random. He flipped onto an empty page, sneaked a pen off her desk, and started writing as she spoke. “Right, step one - become a professor,” he joked.

Daenerys laughed. “It’s play pretend. But let’s say you want to be a professor - it’s a goal, right? What will you need to reach that goal?”

Jon bit onto the end of the pencil. “Well, to be honest, I don’t know much about, eh, _professors_. Do you go to a special school or something?”

“You’re missing the point. You’re looking at the route, but not the skills. To be a professor, you’ll probably need presentation skills, because you’ll be sharing your work with all sorts of people, and because you’ll have to relate to so many different characters, you must have good communication skills.”

“So to get my degree,” Jon spoke slowly, ensuring he chose his words with care, “you’re telling me to map out the skills I need to get it?”

“But most importantly,” Daenerys said and pulled a book out of the shelf. She looked at it and, with a satisfied nod, turned to face Jon as she handed it to him. “You need to think of what’s next.”

Jon blinked at her as he closed his hand around the book. “What’s next?” he said, his voice almost exasperated. “I’ve not even reached one goal, and I already need to think of more?”

“What’s the point of a goal if it doesn’t achieve anything?” Daenerys asked and raised her brows. “A goal is not a vision in itself. Why do you set a goal, what do you want from it? You don’t become a professor to teach people. You become a professor to _influence_ people, to make them _grow_. That’s what you need to figure out.” She tapped her fingers to the book in his hands, and Jon finally glanced at the cover.

“ _Find your passion_?” he read the title out loud. Below it was an author’s name he didn’t recognise: David Tanner. He flipped the book over before sending her a disapproving look. “Professor, surely you’re not telling me some sort of self-help book is my next step?”

“You said it yourself - not to go around judging people,” Daenerys reminded him with a smirk.

Jon immediately regretted speaking those words. Still, he closed his notebook and slipped it down into his backpack next to David Tanner’s apparent ‘ _Book of the Year 2018_ ’, and he stood up. “Thanks, Professor,” he said, “I’ll think about it.”

“Three skills,” she said and held up the same amount of fingers as if ensuring he could count, “I expect three skills you need to develop. Bring them by next Wednesday.”

“Are you my mentor, or my lecturer?” Jon said bemused as he slipped on his backpack. He didn’t think she would reply, but Daenerys chuckled lowly and leaned back against her desk, feet crossed at her ankles, as she sent him a mysterious look.

“I’m a multifaceted woman,” she said, “better get used to it, _Mr Snow_.”

The way she spoke his name made Jon’s heart flutter, and he quickly ducked out of her office and down the hallway. As he walked, he felt something stir inside of him. Something _different_. He clenched his hands to fists at his sides as he tried to drown it.

_Hold on to your anger,_ Jon thought, and he quickened his steps as he approached the exit, _or you’ll just face disappointment. She believes in you now, but only because she doesn’t know you. Once she realises what a failure you are, she’ll shut you out._

Jon barely made it outside before he unzipped his backpack, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. The moment the smoke filled his lungs, he felt relief, and he settled down with his back pushed against the railing as he nursed his cigarette. His eyes caught sight of the self-help book sticking up from the pocket in his bag. “I’ll never read you,” he said to it and blew smoke into the air, “so better stop waiting.”

* * *

Jon flipped onto his back, pressed the book to his chest and eyed the ceiling with a quiet: “Wow.”

His bedroom was brimming with noise. It wasn’t particularly good music, but playing some random ‘Best of 2019’ Spotify playlist on repeat was definitely preferable to hearing his brother getting it on across the hall. It did mean he needed a distraction, and having already read all the books he owned, he somehow found himself flipping through ‘Find your passion’ with the most impassive look on his face. That was, until he started actually _reading_.

_Whoever this Tanner guy is,_ Jon thought as he held up the book and glanced at the cover, _he’s a genius._ The man didn’t just write about passion - he wrote about _life_. About making a difference by becoming the best version of yourself, and if there was something Jon knew he craved when he looked in the mirror, it was just that. To see someone worth his time. Somehow, David Tanner seemed to understand that.

In truth, Jon knew he was slobbering up the words with a lack of criticism, the same way a thirsty man could drink soapy water and probably feel satisfied. But somewhere amongst the hundreds of pages of advice, there was a kernel of truth that spoke to him. No matter how much he wanted to deny it, it left him stunned, even now as he dropped the book back onto his chest and shook his head.

_I need to wake up,_ Jon realised and pulled a face. He swiftly slipped his mobile phone out of the pocket of his jeans as he started browsing online. He was clicking onto pages at random, trying to distract himself from the feeling that was growing inside of him. _Surely, I’m not some Mr Scrooge desperate for a glimpse of hope in my bleak existence?_ he thought. _Surely, I am not thinking that Professor Targaryen might actually be able to help me?_

There she was: seductive eyes, plump lips parted in a sigh, her head slightly turned away from the viewer as she angled her body for the camera. It took Jon a moment to realise that he had clicked onto her Facebook. As his eyes roamed her profile picture, he thought to himself: _I shouldn’t be doing this. She has a right to privacy._

Still, his thumb kept scrolling, and before he knew to stop himself, he was flipping through her status updates and albums, casting a little light onto what kind of person his new mentor was.

It only took Jon a few minutes to realise three things:

  1. Daenerys Targaryen was single.  
  
When he called her _Mrs_ , he thought she was merely annoyed at not being properly addressed. But he realised that perhaps she was also angry that he assumed a woman of her age would be wed. _Perhaps I do live in the fifties_ , he thought with a slight sense of embarrassment, and he patted his red cheeks to cool them down. All the same, he found an odd kind of comfort in knowing that she wasn’t dating anyone.  
  

  2. Daenerys Targaryen loved travelling.  
  
Jon counted at least nine different countries as he browsed through her photo albums. In one picture, she would be posing in front of the Great Wall of China, and in the next she would be skiing in the Swiss Alps. When she didn’t upload travel photos, she linked to other people’s blogs, enviously gushing about some new experience they’d had working a farm in Cambodia. _I guess we have that in common,_ Jon realised, thinking back on his own gap years of travelling.  
  

  3. Daenerys Targaryen was _fucking sexy._



Jon paused at a photo. He knew it to be recent, not because of the date it was posted, but because of her tan - he immediately recognised the white stripes across her shoulders, and he couldn’t help but gawk as he zoomed in on the picture to get a better look.

Daenerys stood in front of a pool in a leopard bikini, the top barely keeping her round breasts in place, and her bikini bottoms almost hidden between her crossed, fleshy thighs. Her tanned skin was glistening wet, probably from a recent swim, and her silver hair hung loose around her shoulders, perfectly framing her face. She was laughing, her lips pulled back to reveal her white teeth, whilst her eyes gazed out at him, the glimpse in them friendly.

_I really shouldn’t be looking_ , Jon reminded himself as he gazed down her cleavage and took in the faint sight of her hard nipples poking at her bikini top. _I should close down Facebook now before I accidentally like something._ The thought alone should make him shiver with worry, but instead he found himself taking care as he scrolled through the latest holiday photos, his eyes greedily eating up every pool photo of Daenerys that he could find.

Jon’s mouth was turning dry. His forehead glistened with sweat. His breath deepened. Soon, he felt himself sinking further into the duvet. Soon, he found his hand slipping into his jeans. Soon, his fingers closed around his throbbing cock, and he started slowly jerking himself as he flipped between her best photos.

As Jon’s hand worked his length, his fantasy started taking over. He imagined himself back at Daenerys’ office, but when she turned from the shelving unit to look at him, she was no longer offering him a book. Instead, her fingers pulled her dress open at the front as she revealed her body to him, glistening wet and skimpily covered in a small black bikini.

“Fuck yeah,” Jon mumbled, his breath warm across his lips, and he rubbed his thumb around his cockhead as he felt it pulsate. It was getting harder, and soon he could not stand the restriction of his jeans. He hurriedly tucked himself free of the fabric, and he gasped as the cool air of the room embraced his warm cock, making him shiver in excitement.

Jon’s eyes sought his phone again, the mobile resting in his left hand, and he licked his lips in a quiet grunt. _You have no right to be so sexy, Professor,_ he thought, and in his mind she answered him in a sultry voice: _Oh, Mr Snow, it’s all for you_. The thought made Jon’s hand work harder, and he arched his back as he felt his balls tensing.

He imagined how she would settle in his lap. How her fingers would stroke through his hair. How she would press his face to her body and make him kiss her and lick her all over until she was wriggling in pleasure.

_I could make her feel so good,_ Jon thought, and he lost hold of his phone as his eyes closed and his hand furiously worked his throbbing cock. _I would make her come to my lips again, and again, and again._

Jon pressed his head to the side, his cheek flat against his pillow as he jerked himself one last time and came. His cum dripped onto the palm of his hand. He took in a heaving breath as his fingers relaxed, their movements across his member slow as he emptied himself.

It was as he laid in the afterglow, his cheeks red and sweaty, and his hand sticky from his own seed, that he felt a pinch of guilt starting to grow bigger in his quickened heart. _I am such a fucking pervert,_ he thought and sighed, but before he could sink too deeply into the thought, there was a knock on his door.

“-ucking loud!” he heard his brother shout, most of the sentence lost in the music.

Jon swore under his breath and sat up in bed, his eyes scouring the messy floor for a pack of tissues. “Hold on!” he yelled, but either Robb did not hear him or he did not care, because he flung the door open, causing Jon to grab at the first thing he could find - David Tanner’s book.

“Turn down your music!” Robb grimaced, fingers in his ears, and it took him a second to read the scene before him: Jon on his bed, jeans pushed down to his hips, a self-help book covering his groin. “Oh fuck me.”

“Do you mind!” Jon said through gritted teeth, and he felt his cheeks go an even deeper shade of red. He waited until his brother turned his back on him to tuck himself away. But the damage was already done - his hand had left a sticky mark inside the book, causing a few of the pages to stick together. _How the hell am I meant to explain that to Daenerys?_ Jon mused. The thought alone almost made him feel sick.

“Are you decent?” Robb asked.

Jon replied by reaching over and turning off the sound on his laptop. As the music stopped, they both breathed a sigh of relief as silence took over the room.

“I could barely hear myself think!” Robb said and turned back to face Jon, his brows raised. He was in his pyjama bottoms only. Jon gestured to them as he retorted:

“Don’t think you were doing much thinking just now.”

“Neither were you,” Robb laughed, “look, I know you were obsessed with that whole Marie Kondo cleaning series, but to start jerking off to self-help books? That’s taking it a step in a creepy direction.”

“I wasn’t jerking off to it,” Jon assured him as he pushed the book to the floor. He would have to deal with the damage later - first, he needed rid of Robb. “I was _studying._ ”

Robb eyed his bed with a peculiar smile on his lips. “I can see that.”

Jon followed his stare to his mobile on the bed, the screen still lit up on a photo of Daenerys. He swiftly popped it into his pocket. “What do you want?” he asked, fighting his way through his embarrassment. _I hope he didn’t see who it was on that photo,_ he thought and eyed Robb. “You need me out again?”

“It’s just _really_ hard to, you know, _let go_ when your brother is next door, playing music and, well, _other things_.”

“You have such a way with words. Do girls love you for your poetry?”

Robb rolled his eyes. “Don’t you have work?”

Jon glanced at the clock on his wall. Ten. “As a matter of fact, I do,” he sighed and grabbed a random sweater off the floor. He didn’t bother changing, he just pulled it over his tee and ran his fingers through his messy locks.

“You must be making a lot of cash. What do you do again, bartending?” Robb asked, clearly trying to fill the silence as Jon grabbed his coat and started tying up his boots. “When am I going to see my rent?”

“When I get to spend a week in the flat without being subject to your amarture pornstar lifestyle,” Jon said.

“I’m not an amature,” Robb said, before clarifying, “and I’m not a pornstar.”

“Sure, you’re a _serious student_ ,” Jon said with air-quotes, earning himself an offended stare from his brother.

“No need to be a dick.”

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Jon just sighed as he headed out. Robb didn’t say else, just slammed the door shut, and as he walked the stairway, Jon heard him lock it as well. _Fucking hell,_ he thought, but though anger boiled in him, he felt himself more concerned with another matter. As he walked into the evening air, once again feeling its chill waking up his body, he thought: _What do I do about that book?_

* * *

Once more, there was a tense pause as Daenerys read Jon’s notes, and as he sat squirming in his seat, he silently pleaded: _Please don’t think I’m an idiot._

It had not been easy coming up with three skills. Jon had exhausted Google for ideas before turning to his friends. Of course, they had all proven to be useless: Daario mentioned _helpfulness_ , and soon came up with examples (“Such as driving your friend to practice!”), his classmate Theon suggested _teamwork_ , something Jon at first was interested in before he asked him to do his paper for cash. But the worst advice came from his oldest friend Grey who, after musing over the question for a bit, said: “You need confidence.”

_If there is one thing I don’t lack, it’s confidence,_ Jon thought while feeling sweat trickle down the small of his back and he nervously watched his professor.

Daenerys finally looked up, gazed into his eyes with a neutral expression, and then smiled: “They’re good.”

“Yeah?” Jon perked up, but he tried to play it off by stretching and leaning against the awkward backrest with a yawn. “I guess I did spend a little time coming up with them.” _About twelve hours,_ he bitterly added in his thoughts and gritted his teeth together.

“Resilience,” Daenerys read from his note, “open-mindedness, and problem-solving. All good skills in any field, but especially criminology.” She gave him a look that seemed almost impressed. “Good work, Mr Snow.”

Jon smiled a little and looked down at his boots as he mumbled: “Thanks, Professor.”

“Now, if this is what you want to develop, we need to come up with a plan of action for each of them. Which one should we look at first?”

Jon thought back on her sticky book and shyly suggested: “How about problem-solving?” Truth was, he didn’t think there was a way to solve _that_ particular issue.

Once he’d tried every Youtube-trick of cleaning books, he decided to just go and buy her a new copy. Only problem was: David Tanner supposedly _was_ a beloved self-help guru, and his book was not only sold out, but also out of print for the foreseeable future. Jon had walked to every bookshop in town, but the result had been the same no matter where he went. _Seems like everyone wants to discover their passion,_ he thought and sighed.

If he was worried his concern might have shown on his face, he needed not - Daenerys just clapped her hands together and nodded with excitement. “Right, that’s a good one.” She stood up and walked around her desk to the window, her green dress fluttering around her legs. Jon forced himself not to stare at her thighs as she paced the floor. “Do you have a real life issue we can work on?”

Once more, Jon’s thoughts lingered on the book, but he decided against mentioning it. He tugged at the collar of his shirt as the thought made him warm. “Uhm,” he mumbled, “I don’t know if I have one at hand…”

“Come on,” Daenerys urged. She turned to him with patience. “Think of your goal. Think of your _passion_.”

“Oh, I didn’t have time to read the book yet,” Jon lied and looked away.

He expected Daenerys to sigh with annoyance, perhaps point out what a lazy student he was, but instead her voice was just surprised as she spoke: “Ah, I see.” When he looked back at her, he found no anger in her face. Perhaps just slight hurt.

It surprised him so much he felt his mouth go dry. “I think I often make a larger issue of a smaller one,” Jon heard himself say, the words just spilling out of him, “and before I know it, I’m in so deep I cannot see a way out, and I just end up making things worse for everyone involved.” The moment he’d spoken, he could’ve kicked himself, but Daenerys looked pleased.

“Well, that’s quite an admittance. Thank you for your trust, Mr Snow,” she spoke.

Jon scratched his neck. “Yeah, well, I’ve got to be honest with my mentor, right?”

“It’s normal to stumble, and it’s normal to make mistakes, and it’s normal to want to cover up those mistakes.” Daenerys leaned against her desk. Her green dress rode up her legs as she crossed them. This time, Jon couldn’t make himself look away, but he tried very hard to keep his eyes focused on her face as she continued: “Maturity is not just in age, but in our ability to admit where we went wrong, and then correcting things. Sometimes, it’s better to face things right on and with an honest mind. Else you’ll one day look in the mirror and find you don’t know the person who’s looking back at you.”

“Exactly,” Jon spoke with excitement, and he took in a deep breath through his nose as he reminded himself to remain cool. He settled back into the chair as he cleared his throat. “That’s what I liked about David Tanner - the way he speaks of a person’s actions making up their character, and how we must control our actions to control who we are.” For a moment, Daenerys looked at him so blankly that he thought she hadn’t even read the book herself, but then, as his mistake dawned on him, his lips snapped shut as his heartbeat quickened. _Fuck_.

“So you _did_ read the book?” she said vexed. “Why didn’t you just say?”

Not knowing what else to say, Jon muttered: “I guess I also need to work on honesty,” and dipped his head to hide his blush.

Daenerys sat for a moment, and he waited for her to question him further, but then she simply got up and walked to the shelving unit. “If you liked it, I can lend you more by Mr Tanner,” she said, her eyes roaming the shelves.

“There’s _more_?” Jon said and looked up. “You don’t mind me taking them home?”

Then he heard it - the sultry tone from his fantasies as Daenerys purred: “Oh, Mr Snow, it’s all for you.” As he looked up, he could’ve sworn he saw her turn, her dress wide open, her naked body on display for him. But once he blinked, she was again clothed, and she was sending him an odd look as she held out a book. “Mr Snow?”

“Uh…” Jon squeezed his legs together as he stared at her confused. “Uh, sorry, Professor - what did you say?”

“I said - it’s all available for you to read. I’m happy to share my collection with students.” Once more, she pushed the book forward, and Jon awkwardly grabbed it.

“Right. Thanks,” he muttered, staring at another book by David Tanner, ‘ _How to succeed_ ’. “You sure like that author, huh?” He was making smalltalk, just to try to bring his attention away from his throbbing groin, but it was difficult to even stay seated.

“Well, I guess you could say we’re _close_ ,” Daenerys said with a little smile.

_Close,_ Jon wondered as he put the book in his backpack. _That’s what I’d like to be to you._ “Thanks Professor,” he said again, and he held the backpack in front of him as he got up. “I, uh, I think I’ve got to cut the meeting short,” he said, and, once more, he found a lie easily slipping from his lips: “I’ve got band practice.”

“You’re in a band?” Daenerys said and crossed her arms. “What do you do, sing?”

Jon wrinkled is nose, unsure what she was insinuating, but he shook his head and just replied: “I play the guitar.”

“Why, you must be a popular man, Mr Snow,” Daenerys said, and there was something to her voice. The same _something_ that had made Jon’s stomach churn the first time they met, and which now made his legs very weak as he backed toward her office door.

“Sure. Right,” he said, “popular. Anyway, thanks, Professor. I’ll see you next Wednesday.”

“I expect you to come back with an example of how you problem-solved,” she called after him.

Jon just gave her a smile as the door shut, and he thought: _I have a current problem to solve right now._

Jon wasn’t sure what about Daenerys made his hormones rage like a teenager’s, but he couldn’t find a bathroom quickly enough. By the time he reached the men’s loo at the end of the hall, he barely checked that no one else was in there before locking himself up in a stall. As he sunk down atop the toilet lid, he glanced at the bulge in his jeans, and he took in a deep, shivering breath as he tried to convince himself that this was highly inappropriate. Not only that, it was _indecent_. He was at _uni_. Surely, he couldn’t be considering masturbating _here_?

All the same, after a brief moment of hesitation, Jon unzipped himself and pulled out his hard cock. Precum was already leaking from his head, and he wrapped his hand around it as he dragged the liquid down, using it to help jerk his length as he settled back against the toilet.

Jon’s legs shivered. His breathing soon turned ragged. As he closed his eyes, all he could see was Daenerys.

She sat smirking against her desk, her green dress riding up higher and higher, revealing where her tan ended. Once she reached her milky skin, she spread her legs, showing her inner thighs to him as well as a skimpy pair of pink knickers which barely covered her sex. _You want me to lick you, Professor?_ he thought, lost in his imagination, and she urged him closer and closer until her legs wrapped around his face, and his nose was buried against her cunt. _Yes you do, yes you do, you dirty woman._

Jon’s toes curled as he came. He yelped and bit down on his shirt to stay quiet as he relieved himself into his hand. His lungs burned from a lack of air, but he didn’t dare to gasp in, afraid someone would enter the toilet and hear him groan. Instead, he spat out his shirt and took in a normal, long breath, calming his heart with a few rounds of slow breathing. Only then, when he was sure he was calm, did he pull off a wad of toilet paper and wipe himself down.

Once Jon exited the stall, he caught sight of himself in the mirror above the sinks. His cheeks were sweaty, and his neck red, and his hand shivered slightly from the quick workout. Daenerys’ voice sounded in his head: _Else you’ll one day look in the mirror and find you don’t know the person who’s looking back at you._

_Oh, I know very well who that is_ , Jon thought as he stared at himself, _that’s a man who’s lost himself._ He quickly glanced away, pulled his backpack on, and left the toilets.

If Jon felt some sort of relief at his day reaching an end, it didn’t last for long. The moment he stepped back into the hallway, he heard someone call:

“Good news!” and he felt a shudder run down his spine. As he turned, he was face to face with Daario. His friend had been leaning next to the toilet door, but now he straightened up with a happy look on his face.

Jon scowled: “Have you been waiting for me?”

Daario completely ignored his question as he continued: “I’ve changed the day.”

“What day?”

“The day of practice, of course.” Daario rolled his eyes and sent Jon a look that clearly said: don’t be an idiot. “Since you’re doing mentoring on Wednesdays, I managed to convince the others to do Tuesday. So - good news!” He held his breath as he watched Jon, the look on his face expectant, and Jon gawked at him unsure of what was going on.

“Wait, _what?_ ”

“You’re free Tuesdays, right?” Daario said, and he pressed on: “So you can drive me.”

Jon shook his head. At first, slowly, but soon with vigour. “Ooh no!” he said and snapped around on his heels, quickly heading the other direction. “No, nope! Sorry Daario, no can do!”

“Why not?” Daario followed him at his heels. The guy was quick, and he had no issue keeping up with Jon. His steps almost looked slow in comparison to Jon’s hurried ones. “Come on, Jon, we both know you’re not in a band anymore. _I_ can be your new band!”

“I’d love to, but can’t!” Jon pushed his tongue around his mouth as he tried to come up with a lie. “I’ve got work.”

“You work Wednesdays.”

“They gave me more shifts.”

“I know - so you now work Saturdays as well.”

_Does he remember everything I tell him?_ Jon thought, and he flung out another lie with an exasperated sigh: “I’ve got a study group!”

“Yes, I checked with Grey - it’s Fridays, right?” Daario sped up, and he swung out in front of Jon, forcing him to stop. “Jon!” he said, and ran a hand through his brown hair as he raised his brows. “You’re out of excuses.”

Jon stopped before Daario and gave his friend a tired look. _Yes_ , he thought, _yes I am._ He could feel it in him - the need to give in. The same need he felt whenever Robb suggested that he leave the flat, or when Theon slipped him a tenner to look at his notes. It was the easy way out, no matter how it irked him and filled him with anger. The emotion burned right beneath his skin and made him prickly, and he furiously scratched his arms and looked around.

It was then that his eyes fell on a golden plaque. A name shined on it: Daenerys Targaryen, and as he read it, he thought of what she said.

_A problem only grows,_ he thought, _and sometimes it’s better to face things right on._ So he took in a deep breath. He turned back and looked Daario in the eyes. Then he heard himself say: “Sorry, Daario, I just don’t want to.”

His friend blinked with surprise. “No?” he said.

Jon shook his head. “No,” he nodded and sighed. “Look, I love playing, but I’ve got so much stuff going on right now. It’s just not a good time. Sorry - but no. I don’t want to do it.” He held his breath and closed his eyes, preparing for Daario to either beg or lash out at him.

But instead, the guy shrugged. “Alright, whatever you say,” and he zipped up his hoodie.

Jon blinked his eyes open and stared. “Yeah?” he said.

Daario smiled a little. “Yeah?” he repeated. “I mean, it’s what it is, right? Let me know if you change your mind.” He gave Jon’s shoulder a pat before he turned and walked down the hallway, whistling all the way to the exit.

Jon stood gawking until Daario had left the building, and only then did it sink in what had happened. _Holy f-_ he thought, _it actually worked?_ He couldn’t believe it, not even when he walked outside and found that his friend was not waiting for him. He’d left, content with Jon’s explanation, and Jon felt a strange sense of relief flooding through his body.

“Who would’ve thought,” he mumbled and lit a smoke, “honesty works, huh?”

* * *

At first, Jon wasn’t sure what to expect from his confrontation with Daario. _Perhaps it’s all a fluke,_ he thought when he bumped into the guy again the next day, and he braced himself for a return of ‘Please join my band’-Daario.

But his friend just greeted him as usual and started rambling about some sci-fi movie he’d seen, and by the time they parted, practice hadn’t been mentioned even once. _I can’t believe it,_ Jon thought as he saw Daario take off in direction of class, and he just kept shaking his head. _He’s like a changed man._

He couldn’t keep his success to himself. When Daenerys asked him to use problem-solving on a real life issue, he spoke in earnest about his friend - he merely twisted the truth to make it sound more _academic_. “I thought about what we discussed,” he said, “and I broke down a communication problem to discover that, at its core, it was a matter of a difference of opinions. By clarifying my own position in new terms, I was able to convince the other party to see my side of things, and we agreed to focus on other projects.”

_A+ for bullshit,_ Jon thought as he watched Daenerys’ eyes widen in surprise, _if there’s one thing uni has taught me, it’s to twist my words like a politician._

It mattered not; Daenerys was pleased all the same. “Why, Mr Snow,” she said as she pulled out his notes again and crossed out problem-solving. “You’re turning out to be quite an impressive student.”

Jon could only smile and clench his toes, well aware that he was misleading Daenerys but at the same time feeling excited that she was impressed by him, and soon they started tackling the next skill on his list - resilience.

It turned out to be the skill that Jon needed the most, but likely not in the way his professor intended. When she spoke of resilience, she spoke of it the same way David Tanner did in his book; as a means of reaching your passion. Thing was, Jon _had_ found his passion, but unlike what his sticky self-help book would have him believe, it had nothing to do with setting goals and seeing them being achieved. It was more _feral_ than that.

Jon Snow had been sexually awakened by Professor Daenerys Targaryen, and whenever his right hand didn’t work his body into a frenzy, his mind battled to keep him from flashing a hardon when he sat in her office. It was as Robb said - it took balls not to get a boner every time he met with her, and that’s where Jon needed his skill of resilience. Because every time Daenerys wore a short dress, every time he got a peek of her legs, every time a low-cut dress allowed him to get lost in her cleavage - every time he found himself in a bathroom stall, jerking himself off until his body was sweaty and spent.

And he felt _guilt_. No anger, just _guilt_ , knowing that he was taking advantage of her good nature. _If she had any idea of what she is doing to me,_ Jon thought one day as he sat in the stall, limp cock in his hand, cum dripping down his fingers, _she would never even look at me again_.

* * *

“Mate, I can’t even look at you right now.”

Jon turned, bowl of cereal in his hands, and glared at Robb as he entered the kitchen. It was a tight space, mostly because Catelyn had insisted that her son owned every gadget available _just in case_. The counter space was stocked with a microwave, juicer, bread maker, food processor, fryer, grill, coffee maker, kettle - all unused, of course.

_But you never know when your son might turn Gordon Ramsay,_ Jon thought whilst eyeing Robb. His brother leaned against the kitchen wall and shook his head. “What?”

“Cereal?” Robb said and quirked a brow. “At eight in the evening?”

“It’s frosted flakes,” Jon defended himself.

“You need a real meal.”

“Care to cook me something?” Jon joked and gestured at the many machines. “I think Catelyn’s still holding her breath for that dinner invite.”

“No, I don’t just mean a meal as in food,” Robb clarified. He walked up and placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder as he looked him in the eye. “I’m talking _soul_ food. You need a date.”

Jon furrowed his brows. “Alright, I’m intrigued - what’s happened?”

“I’m just looking out for my brother. You’re always alone.”

“Hoping to get me hooked on Tinder?”

“Nah, Jon, you’re too real for Tinder. I’m thinking _a club_. Maybe the one you bartend at?” His hold on his shoulder got stronger as he gave him a good squeeze. “I bet a lot of girls are out and about tonight.”

Jon stared at his brother, confusion in his eyes, until it suddenly dawned on him. “You need me out of the flat.”

Robb’s lips twisted into an awkward grimace. “It’s not just about what I want.”

“Contrary - it’s always about what you want,” Jon said with a sigh. Still, he instinctively found himself putting the bowl aside and heading out into the hallway, looking for his shoes. _I’m not even fighting him,_ he realised as he grabbed his black boots. It made his skin prickly with anger. _Where’s that resilience I’ve been working on?_

Robb stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he followed. “Look, Jon, I think she might be the one.”

“You say that about all of them.”

“It’ll just make it easier to, well, _court_ her if you’re not around.”

“But I _am_ around. I live here,” Jon reminded him with a growl.

Robb scratched his neck. His skin was turning red, Jon noted. He was getting flustered with defence. “Yes, well, but I do _own_ the flat, Jon.”

“Hey, you said she’s the one,” Jon grabbed his leather jacket and raised his brows at his brother. “Shouldn’t she meet the family then? Get to know your brother?”

“But you’re not really family though, are you?” Robb snapped. The moment the words left his lips, his eyes grew wide, and they stared at each other in a tense silence.

Jon took in a deep breath. If his skin was prickly before, it was now burning. It was like a fire spreading across his whole body, and he found his hands tensing into fists at his sides. _It doesn’t matter,_ Jon thought, _it doesn’t matter._ All the same, his heartbeat had quickened so much it almost made him feel out of breath. As he turned to grab at the door-handle, he found his vision blurred.

“Fuck, man, I’m sorry, I-” Robb blurted.

Jon forced the door open and stumbled out into the hallway. _It doesn’t matter. You have more important things to worry about. It doesn’t matter._ He focused on his thoughts, not allowing Robb’s voice to pierce through his mind, and it was with a casual wave of his hand that he descended down the stairs. “No bother!” he called. “I’ll see you later!”

“You’re not mad?” Robb shouted after him, his voice echoing in the empty stairway.

Jon didn’t reply but just hurried into the cold evening air. He wasn’t sure where he was heading - it was Monday, most of the bars in the neighbourhood were closed, all the cafes were bathed in darkness, the shops had just locked their doors. But he knew one thing for certain: he could not go back to the flat.

Somehow, Jon’s feet found their own way, and before he knew it, he was strolling the aisles in his university’s library.

The grand building was bright and desolate. It wasn’t exam season, so most of the study tables were empty, and Jon only saw two students chatting with the librarian as he walked through the door. Now, as he was trudging between the bookshelves, his fingertips brushing across the hardbound covers, he could only hear his own steps, and in the quiet his heartbeat slowly started calming again.

_I shouldn’t let him get to me so easily,_ Jon thought, at once feeling dumb at his display of emotion. He lingered at the travel section, his gaze lazily slipping across the many journals on display. _It’s better just to pick myself up and move on._ Still, something irked him about their conversation, and he shook his head with vigour as he tried to remove all thoughts from his head.

“Big paper coming up?” a voice asked.

Jon blinked and gazed to the side as a woman approached him. He eyed her from the feet up; black heels, white dress, golden necklace, red lips, violet eyes. His mouth turned dry as he stared into them, the glimpse in them humoured.

“Professor Targaryen,” he greeted and turned to face her. As always, she looked immaculate, much opposite of his own worn jacket and ripped jeans. He glanced down and pulled the leather tighter around him to cover the fact that his tee was crinkled. “What’re you doing here so late?”

“Probably the same as you,” she replied. She stopped before him and crossed her arms. In heels, she was almost his height, and he didn’t have to look down far to meet her gaze. “Doing a bit of late prepping. Are you studying for an exam?”

_I haven’t studied in months_ , Jon thought, still she served him the opportunity of a lie so easily. As he parted his lips, he felt in himself an urge to play along - an urge to make himself sound a little better than he was. But something else in him begged for honesty, and he heard himself say: “Actually, I am just seeking refuge.”

Daenerys quirked her brows. “Refuge?” she repeated.

Jon swallowed. _Well, there goes any chance of a lie._ He scratched his neck and sighed: “I’ve been kicked out of my flat.”

“Mr Snow, are you telling me you’ve been evicted?”

“Kind of,” Jon said, but he sent her a smile as he clarified, “by my brother. We share a place. Whenever he has a girl over, he makes me leave so they can, eh, _get acquainted._ ”

“And you’re okay with this?” Daenerys’ voice was surprised, and Jon felt himself squirm.

“I mean, it’s what it is, isn’t it?” he said and avoided looking into her eyes. He couldn’t bear being judged, not when he was feeling so down already. “Some things are just not worth picking a fight over.” He watched his boots, waiting for her to scold him for not using his skill of _problem-solving_ , but when she didn’t say anything, he finally glanced back up at her.

In Daenerys’ face, there was something _different_. He couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was, but she had a softness to her eyes that he hadn’t seen before, and it made him blink. “I get it,” she said, her voice quiet, “family can be complicated.” She sent him a little smile as she added: “Especially brothers.”

“Right,” Jon mumbled, stumped. As Daenerys turned to glance at the books, he felt himself inspecting her face for any sign of emotion. _Does she have a brother?_ he wondered. _Do they have issues too?_ But the longer he watched her, the sooner his eyes started slipping, and he caught himself gazing at the faint line of her lace bra the shape of which peeked through the thin fabric of her dress. By the time he forced himself to look back up, he met her eyes, and he felt his cheeks go brimming red.

“Do you enjoy travelling, Mr Snow?” Daenerys asked.

_With my eyes?_ Jon thought panicked before he remembered which section of the library they were in. He quickly turned and looked at the books. “Yes, I do,” he said and swallowed to force his heartbeat back down into his chest. Right now, it pulsated in his throat and made his voice shaky. “I did go travelling for a few years.”

“Where did you go?” Daenerys asked. She leaned up against the bookshelf, her arms crossed below her breasts, and Jon found himself concentrating very hard on reading every title before him.

“Thailand,” Jon said and tapped at a book about Bangkok before moving his finger along, reading out the places he’d been: “Cambodia, India, Nepal, Laos.”

“Sounds like a lads’ holiday,” Daenerys chuckled, and Jon just shrugged:

“Guess it does.”

“I love travelling,” Daenerys admitted unprovoked. She rested her hands behind her back as she walked alongside the shelves, her own eyes gazing at the many countries. “I used to go everywhere when I was younger. If Instagram had been a thing back in my day, I’d be living off of my travel photos!”

_I know_ , Jon thought, thinking back to her Facebook. _With a body like yours, you’d be swimming in sponsors._ “Where did you go?” he asked, trying to bring his mind back on track. “Anywhere interesting?”

Daenerys looked at him with a gentle smile, and her voice was full of nostalgia as she spoke: “Oh, Mr Snow, I went _everywhere_.” That was the moment he knew he’d sparked something in her - as she turned back to the books, her words were brimming with excitement: “Every year, I would save up as much cash as I could, and then I’d just be off for a month. I simply packed my bag, went to the airport, and grabbed any flight available.”

Jon felt his chest go warm as he watched her speak. “Go on, Professor,” he urged, “what was your best experience?”

Daenerys turned to him, biting on her lower lip as if she was about to speak a secret. “Kenya,” she said, her voice hushed. “I went on the most amazing safari.”

“Let me guess,” Jon smirked, thinking back on her glamorous online photos, “it was all luxury tent camps and men in smocks serving you cocktails as you gazed upon the wildlife?”

“Actually, _Mr Snow_ ,” Daenerys said straightening up, her voice slightly mocking, “I carried my own tent, camped in nowhere land with no facilities, drove a truck with no air-con, and was eaten alive at night by mosquitoes. You know, _high-end_ stuff.”

“Right,” Jon nodded, “I’m sold - when can I go?”

Daenerys laughed: “I know it sounds terrible, but it was amazing. I’ve never felt more free.”

“You said _used to_ go,” Jon pointed out, and he could already see the excitement on Daenerys’ face falter. “What happened?”

The professor glanced at her feet, and her smile was strained. “As I said, Mr Snow,” she spoke slowly, “family can be complicated.”

Jon felt a sting of guilt, and it was much greater than what normally ached him after a jerk-off session. Because at least when he masturbated, he was only at fault for fantasizing about her. But now, in an attempt to be friendly, he’d actually caused real pain, and he could see it in her body; the way she tucked her arms around herself, the way she turned from him, the way she glanced the other way as if looking to escape.

He knew he had to say something. So he said the first thing that came to his mind: “Hey, it’s not all bad.” He waited until she looked at him again before continuing: “I mean, you still get to go swimming, right? You were at some pool a few weeks back? It might be no safari, but it’s still something.”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes. “I suppose,” she said, but her voice wasn’t as joyful as Jon had hoped. Her gaze slipped down his body, then back up, and she said: “You look cold.”

Jon shrugged. The library was heated, but due to the size of the room one could barely feel it unless seated against the radiator. “Maybe a bit?” he spoke confused.

Daenerys nodded thoughtfully, and she tapped her nails to her arms as she crossed them. “How about we go to my office?” she suggested. “It’s warmer there. I can make us a cup of tea, and you can rest for a while. Just until your flat becomes _accessible_ again.”

Jon chuckled at her choice of words. “A cup of tea actually does sound nice,” he admitted.

“Great.” Daenerys snapped around on her heels and started leading the way, and Jon forced his eyes away from her round behind as he followed close.

Daenerys hadn’t been lying - her office was _sweltering_. The moment Jon stepped inside, he gasped for air and immediately shrugged off his leather jacket. “Wow, Professor,” he said, feeling a sheen of sweat appear on his face, “you sure like it hot.” He glanced to her desk; student papers were neatly organised into three piles, two highlighters - all yellow - were lined up next to them, and a single pencil, perfectly sharpened, rested atop the desk.

“Sit down,” Daenerys said as she followed him inside.

Jon gazed at the chair. “Has anyone ever told you how uncomfortable this thing is?” he asked and turned to smile at her. Perhaps it was their friendly chatter that had given him courage, but he felt he could speak more freely. However, when he met her eyes, the look in them was sharp, and her tongue was like a whip as she said:

“Sit.”

It was not an invitation - it was a command. Jon blinked at her sudden change of tone, but still he slunk around the chair and sat down, the leather jacket folded in his lap.

Daenerys closed the door behind them. Then, he heard the sound of it lock. “Weren’t you getting us tea?” he asked meekly, but her voice once more quieted him:

“I didn’t ask you to speak.”

Jon swallowed. The whole situation reminded him of the first time he walked into her office - how she’d invited him in, but immediately demanded that he shut up. Now, he sat the same way, eyes focused on his boots as he held his tongue, his ears perked as he listened for movement.

Daenerys moved slowly. Her heels clacked across the floor as she walked behind him, and he felt her shadow fall over him as her back covered the light. Her hands leaned onto the backrest. He could hear her nails clicking against the wood. “Mr Snow,” she said, her voice low, “have you been spying on me?”

Jon’s cheeks flushed. “Spying!” he said surprised. “Of course not!”

The clicking stopped. “Mr Snow,” she repeated, “you know I value honesty.”

“So do I.” Jon was feeling confused. The heat didn’t help. With every second, more sweat started forming on his skin. “I’d never spy on you. I don’t know what you’re on about, Professor.”

“Do you have Facebook?” she asked. She was leaning in. He could feel her breath slipper across his nape.

Jon nodded. “Everyone does,” he mumbled.

“So do I,” Daenerys said.

_I know_ , Jon thought, and only then did it start to dawn on him. _Fuck_.

“But you already know that,” Daenerys said before he could. Her breath was now on his ear. He could feel his lobe burn as she leaned in and whispered: “How else would you have seen me at the pool?”

“I swear, it was just once!” Jon lied and turned to look at her. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting - perhaps to see her face red with anger, or her lips twisted in disgust. What he didn’t expect, however, was for her face to be perfectly neutral. There was nothing to see - not a crease, not a single pull of a muscle. As she straightened up, she looked akin a statue, he thought - smooth and beautiful.

Daenerys continued walking around him, slowly making her way to his right side. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, Mr Snow,” she spoke as she walked, and Jon turned in the chair to follow her. “You’re not very discreet.”

“I wouldn’t-” Jon started, but a cluck from Daenerys’ tongue silenced him. He sunk back into the chair, pushing his leather jacket tight to his groin as he tried to concentrate. But something about the way she smiled at him made him throb. _I can’t get horny now,_ he thought, a droplet of sweat running down his forehead, _not when she’s scolding me._ All the same, he had to squeeze his knees together and concentrate on his breathing not to get hard.

Daenerys chuckled. “Oh, but you would.” She made her way to the front of him, and for a moment she paused, waiting for Jon to look up at her before she suddenly leaned forward. Her hands grabbed at the armrests. Her face pushed close to his, and she looked into his eyes as she asked: “Do you fantasize about me?”

Jon knew he should lie, but he heard himself reply: “Yes.”

“That’s yes _Professor_ , Mr Snow,” she remarked, and Jon weakly repeated:

“Yes, Professor,” as he pressed his legs closer together. He was staring into her eyes, feeling how she saw right through him. He couldn’t lie. He could only lean back and hope that she would be merciful in her punishment.

“Do you masturbate to me?” Daenerys asked.

Jon’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes,” he still admitted and swiftly added, “Professor.” This close he could smell her scent. A musky perfume. _Roses_ , he thought. _She smells of roses._

Daenerys’ grip on the armrests tightened, and she slowly licked her lips. Her gaze slipped to the jacket in his lap. “Are you hard now, Mr Snow?” she asked, her gaze snapping back up to meet his, and Jon groaned:

“Yes, Professor.”

Daenerys stood up and swiftly pulled his jacket away in the same movement. As it fell to the floor, they both stared at his groin, the bulge in his jeans painfully visible.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, his voice a pained whisper. He knew what would come next - he would be shamed, kicked out of the university, doomed to move out of the city, unable to ever look anyone in the eyes again. _I am a pervert,_ he thought, and the realisation made him shiver, _I deserve whatever comes._

But what came next was not what he expected. Instead of shouting, Daenerys chuckled, and she pushed herself up to sit on the edge of her desk. Her fingers stroked down across her dress, down her legs, and then, as her tips reached the hemline, she started pulling the fabric upwards. “You’ve been very bad, Mr Snow,” she spoke, and her voice was hushed with lust.

Jon couldn’t believe his own eyes; as he sat back, he saw his fantasy play out before him: there was his sexy professor, her hands pulling her dress up her tanned legs until, inevitably, she reached her white skin. She went further, slowly, until he could see the line of her pink lacy underwear peek out from between her fleshy thighs. The sight alone made his mouth water, and he quickly looked down in shame.

“Look at me,” Daenerys said.

Jon still eyed the floor. “Professor,” he said, “I’m sorry. But please don’t tease me.” His fingers dug into a rip in his jeans, and they grabbed onto the fabric tightly for comfort. “If you’re just making fun of me, then-”

“Look at me.” Daenerys’ voice was sharp, and Jon found himself glancing back up to meet her eyes. In them, there was no shame - only desire. It almost shocked him, and he felt sweat break out across his back as well, causing his tee to stick close to his skin. “If I wanted to make fun of you, Mr Snow, you would not be privy to my body. I do, however, want to punish you.”

“For looking at your Facebook?” Jon asked.

“For lying to me about it.” Daenerys narrowed her eyes as she looked at him. “You have a lot of potential, Mr Snow, but it is as you say - you make things worse for yourself. Let’s make this a lesson in being open-minded. First step; tell me about your fantasies.”

“Please, Professor,” Jon said, though he felt his cock ache all the same. “It’s embarrassing.”

“It wouldn’t be a punishment if not,” Daenerys smirked. She lifted her feet and stretched them, resting her heels on the armrests of Jon’s chair as she spread her legs. It was then he realised:

_The chair is not angled for sitting in - but leaning on,_ and he glanced from her heels to her with amazement. _Has she done this before?_

“I’ll only ask you once more,” she snapped, “tell me your fantasy.”

Jon stared as Daenerys’ cunt was revealed to him. Her lacy knickers were flimsy and barely covered her sex; her labia rested just on the edge of the fabric, the pink skin looking smooth and wet. It made his groin pulsate again, and he squirmed. “Right,” he mumbled, suddenly finding it hard to remember any words. His eyes never left her sex as he started speaking: “Right, I’ve thought about… I’ve thought about _kissing you_.”

“Mhm,” Daenerys hummed, and she trailed her hand up along the inners of her thigh. “Where, Mr Snow?”

“Everywhere,” he admitted breathless. “Your breasts. Your stomach. Your thighs. Your-” He paused, unsure of what word to use, but she came to his rescue:

“My cunt?”

“Yes,” Jon said and swallowed. “Yes, Professor, _there_.”

Daenerys smiled a little. Her hand now rested right next to her sex. “I’d like that,” she said, finally letting her fingertips brush across the fabric. She moved slowly, her nails tracing the lace, her fingers dipping into the soft knickers as she started rubbing herself through them. “You’ve got a nice pair of lips, Mr Snow - I’m sure they’d feel _very good_ on me.”

Jon thought it to be an invite - he leaned forward, eager to submit to her wishes, but before he could even reach her thigh, she pushed the flat of her right heel to his chest as she forced him back into the seat. As Jon sent her a confused look, she settled her foot back on the armrest and chuckled:

“I told you - this is a punishment.”

_I should be angry,_ Jon thought as he stared helplessly at Daenerys’ hand working her knickers. _I should be pushing her down and fucking her. That’s what men do, isn’t it?_ But somehow, he knew that wasn’t what either of them wanted, and somehow, he knew he was exactly where he wanted to be: completely at his professor’s mercy. All he could do was lean back and lick his lips as Daenerys’ fingers worked harder, making the fabric damp as she rubbed herself wet, her violet eyes never leaving him.

“Come on,” Daenerys said after a pause. “Open-mindedness,” she reminded him, “tell me more.”

Jon squirmed. “I jerked off to the photo of you in your bikini,” he admitted.

Daenerys smiled, her fingertips pushing down at herself. “Which one?” she asked.

“The leopard one,” Jon said. It seemed to be the right choice - Daenerys’ fingers slipped to the top of her knickers, and then they sunk under the elastic band. Down, onto her sex, and in between the glistening wet lips. “Oh wow,” Jon whispered, his eyes wide as he watched his professor. Her movements caused her pants to slip to the side, revealing how her fingers were sinking in between her lips, further, into herself.

“Continue, Mr Snow,” Daenerys said. Her voice was slightly out of breath, but nonetheless commanding. “I want to hear it all.”

_Everything?_ Jon thought. He took in a deep breath. Then, with regret to his voice, he admitted: “I came on the book you lend me. The one by David Tanner.”

He expected her to laugh. Instead, she sighed: “You dirty boy,” as her thumb grazed her nub. “That’s why you haven’t returned it.”

“I used it to cover myself,” Jon admitted, his cheeks dripping sweat. “I’m sorry, Professor.”

“Good,” she said. She bit her lower lip and sighed as she started circling her nub, her thumb quick. He could tell that she knew her body well - where she wanted to touch, how she wanted to touch, what made her tick. As he watched, he tried to engrave it in his brain as he realised, _She is not just punishing me. She is_ teaching _me._ “What else?”

“What else,” he whispered. What was the point in hesitating anymore? She was on her desk, masturbating in front of him, and all he wanted to do was to come with her. “I’ve imagined you in my lap. Leading me. Riding me.” As he spoke, his hand crept across his leg toward his groin, and he groaned in pained pleasure as his palm touched himself through the jeans. But the relief was short lived - the moment Daenerys heard him, her eyes fluttered open.

“No,” she said sharply, and the single word was enough to make Jon coil back. His hands quickly pushed down at his sides again, his fingers creeping under his thighs not to move around. “You can’t touch yourself. You’re going to sit there and watch me as I come, and then you’re going to remain that way until I allow you to leave. Do you understand, Mr Snow?”

“Yes, Professor,” Jon said, and he had never before felt so close to bursting. It seemed to please her, because as his brows furrowed in need, as his lips parted in silent moaning, her own lips started gasping.

“That’s right,” she whispered, her fingers withdrawing from her cunt to work flatly against her nub. Jon watched as she coated herself with her juices. He could hear how drenched she was - when her fingers moved, they slapped wetly against her skin, and the more she worked herself, the more he started to smell her. The raw smell of woman and sex and cunt. It tickled his nostrils and made him bite his inner cheek not to moan out loud.

_I want to fuck her so badly,_ he thought, his fingers flexing beneath his thighs. _I want to be the one to make her moan._ But he remained still, watching patiently as Daenerys rubbed herself to an orgasm.

When she came, it was with a light cry, and he watched how her body tensed for a second. Her head lolled to the side, her silver hair spilling down her back, and then, as sudden as she had come, as sudden did she retract her legs as her knees pushed together. Her fingers were still on her sex, pressing in against her nub, but they were no longer moving.

For a moment, she sat still, her eyes closed as she regained her breath. Then, her eyes fluttered open, and her wet fingers slipped from her knickers to correct the hem of her dress. Jon had never felt as needy as he did when he saw the white fabric move back down to cover her cunt, then thighs, then legs.

“I think,” she spoke, her voice shivering slightly, “that you’ve finally obtained the skill of open-mindedness.”

“Please, Professor,” Jon said. He watched as she slipped from her desk, her movements slow. She was in no hurry to get going, she just took her time correcting her hair, her dress, her jewellery. Even her heels got another look as she checked them for dirt. “Please, don’t leave me like this.” He glanced between her and his groin, his cock throbbing hard, and for a moment, he thought he saw sympathy in her eyes.

But when she spoke, there was no compassion: “Only good students get to come.”

Jon looked at her with exasperation. “I’ve been good!” he said. “I’ve admitted _everything_.”

“That’s what a good person does,” Daenerys said unimpressed. She leaned against her desk as she crossed her legs at the ankles, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

_She loves seeing me suffer,_ Jon realised. _This is pleasing to her._

“A good student, however,” she continued, “goes to all their lessons, does all their homework, and gets straight As.”

“You know I’m failing my classes,” Jon said.

“I know,” she said and nodded solemnly. “But I also know that you used to be a top student. So there’s no excuse. You want to come?” and at this, she gazed down at his groin with a little smile on her red lips as he nodded, “then you’ve got to do the work, Mr Snow. I know for a fact that you have a paper due on Thursday. When I speak with Professor Mormont on Friday, I expect him to sing your praises.”

“Thursday!” Jon gawked at her, even more so as she casually started walking around her desk. As she took her seat, he shook his head. “That’s impossible, Professor! It’s Monday. I only have two days.”

“Let’s skip mentoring this Wednesday to give you more time,” Daenerys said with a sly smile. “Besides, your brother’s kicked you out for the night, hasn’t he? What a great opportunity to get a headstart on your work.”

Jon stared at Daenerys, and she smiled back at him with smugness. That’s when he realised: _I’ve gotten myself into a massive mess._

“Good luck, Mr Snow,” Daenerys said and grabbed her pencil, and she leaned in over her desk as she continued her work.

“Good evening, Professor,” Jon mumbled as he slunk out of her office. As the door closed behind him, he stared at the golden plaque and thought with determination: _I will show you what a good student I can be._ Only, first he needed to find an empty stall.

* * *

Perhaps Jon had a change of heart. Perhaps he was just desperate to prove himself to Daenerys. Whatever spurred him on, he found himself completely focused on studying for the next two days.

At first, it was difficult; his body wasn’t used to being bent over a laptop for hours on end, and his eyes tired from reading theories on criminal behaviour. But as he put in the time, he found his mind restructuring itself. His brain started reverting back into the mode it was in when he pulled all-nighters during his undergraduate, and soon he stopped thinking. Soon, his fingers just worked on their own, tapping across his keyboard at their own pace, his mind barely keeping up with the ideas that were leaving his body.

By the time the sun rose Thursday morning, Jon found himself exhausted, sweaty, and achy. But he also smiled as he saw the last page of his paper slip out of the printer, the smell of ink never being so sweet before.

_It’s funny,_ he thought as he collected the pages, flipping through them to check that it was all there. _Normally, I would just feel numb. But now?_ Jon popped his work into a plastic wallet as he admired the title, ‘Sex Workers: The Forgotten Women’, and thought: _I actually feel like I’ve achieved something._

Jon didn’t bother tidying up - he just grabbed his jacket as he headed into the hallway, rummaging in the darkness for his shoes. Then, there was a click as someone flipped the switch, and the light turned on above him. He paused, bent over the shoe-rack with his fingers closed at his sneakers, and only slowly did he gaze back at the man who had appeared in the hall.

“Jesus Jon,” Robb yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, “when I heard noises, I thought someone had broken into the flat. Why’re you up already?”

“Never went to bed,” Jon said. He slipped on his shoes and straightened up.

Robb looked him up and down. “I can tell. You’re heading out like that?”

“Why not?”

“There’s coffee on your shirt. And is that toothpaste in your beard?”

Jon turned to the mirror and quickly rubbed his beard clean. “I pulled an all-nighter,” he explained and watched as Robb eyed him with suspicion.

“ _You_ pulled an all-nighter? _Studying_?”

“What else,” Jon grimaced. As his brother approached, he took in a sharp breath and prepared for him to say something spiteful. Like, _You’re doomed to fail,_ or, _Why not just drop out already?_ After all, they hadn’t spoken for a few days. Not since Robb’s comment about family. Jon hadn’t avoided him on purpose - focused on doing his paper, he’d been quietly typing away, and he wasn’t even sure if Robb had noticed that he was at home most of the time. At least his brother had continued meeting girls undeterred by his presence.

But when Robb spoke, it was with a slight smile on his lips: “Good job, man. I knew you had it in you.”

Jon stared back at him with confusion, but he still nodded slowly. “Uh, thanks,” he mumbled vexed. _Did he just compliment me?_

Robb held up his hands. “Hey, I did nothing,” he said before hiding another yawn behind arm. “But I do actually have company, so I better head back.”

“Right. Give her my greetings,” Jon joked as he slipped out the door.

Robb laughed: “You know I won’t!”

As he headed out into the morning air, the breeze was fresh on his face, and Jon felt himself fill with joy as he walked with brisk steps to the university, the paper in his hand still warm from the printer. And he thought: _Nothing can bring me down._

* * *

That afternoon, as Jon was heading back home after his lecture, Olenna stopped him in the hallway. “Mr Snow,” she said, her voice strained, “a word?”

“Sure, chancellor,” Jon spoke surprised, and he let her lead the way into her office. As he sat down, Olenna remained standing, and he thought he saw an odd look to her eyes before she turned her back on him, her eyes seeking the window

“Mr Snow, I am sure you know why I am calling you in here,” she said.

Jon narrowed his eyes. “Not really,” he admitted as he tried to search his mind for any clues. “Did we have an appointment I forgot about?”

“Why don’t you tell me about Professor Targaryen,” Olenna said as she turned sharply on her heels, watching Jon intensely.

Jon felt his heartbeat stop. For a moment, the room spinned before his eyes, and he barely heard himself say: “Professor Targaryen? What do you mean?”

“I know of your little meeting Monday evening,” Olenna continued, and she leaned onto her desk as she looked Jon in the eyes. “Go on, Mr Snow, this concerns both your futures,” she said, and Jon felt his heart drop as she continued: “I want _every_ little detail.”

As Jon stared into Olenna’s urging eyes, he could only think: _Fuck._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed that! The art is by amazing DragonandDirewolf who is always patient and kind in donating me art. Perhaps because she has no choice, being my wife and all, but, you know! If you liked the story, please let me know in a comment. It's really encouraging to hear from you all!


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